182 THE MIRROR OF THE SEA

carefully down the slope. All the time he never once
looked me in the face. He punted us over, then shoul-
dered the oar again and waited till our men were at
some distance before he offered me his arm. After
we had gone a little way, the fishing hamlet we were
making for came into view. Dominic stopped.

"Do you thmk you can make your way as far as the
houses by yourself? " he asked me, quietly.

"Yes, I think so. But why? Where are you going,
Dominic?"

"Anywhere. What a question! Signorino, you
are but little more than a boy to ask such a question
of a man having this tale in his family. Ah! Traditore I
What made me ever own that spawn of a hungry devil
for our own blood! Thief, cheat, coward, liar—other
men can deal with that. But I was his uncle, and so
. . . I wish he had poisoned me—charogne ! But
this: that I, a confidential man and a Corsican, should
have to ask your pardon for bringing on board your
vessel, of which I was Padrone, a Cervoni, who has
betrayed you—a traitor!—that is too much. It is too
much. Well, I beg your pardon; and you may spit
in Dominic's face because a traitor of our blood taints
us all, A theft may be made good between men, a lie
may be set right, a death avenged, but what can one
do to atone for a treachery like this? . . . Nothing."

He turned and walked away from me along the bank
of the stream, flourishing a vengeful arm and repeating
to himself slowly, with savage emphasis: "Ah! Canaille
Canaille! Canaille! . . ,.** He left me there trembling
with weakness and mute with awe. Unable to make
a sound, I gazed after the strangely desolate figure
of that seaman carrying an oar on his shoulder up a
barren, rock-strewn ravine under the dreary leaden
sky of Tremolino's last day. Thus, walking deliber-